out
sport in my life, and in my conscience 'tis not my
fault: Oh, for our Country Ladies! Here's one
boulted, I'le hound at her.

_Enter_ Galatea.

_Gal_. Your Grace!

_Pha_. Shall I not be a trouble?

_Gal_. Not to me Sir.

_Pha_. Nay, nay, you are too quick; by this sweet hand.

_Gal_. You'l be forsworn Sir, 'tis but an old glove. If you
will talk at distance, I am for you: but good Prince,
be not bawdy, nor do not brag; these two I bar, and
then I think, I shall have sence enough to answer
all the weighty _Apothegmes_ your Royal blood shall
manage.

_Pha_. Dear Lady, can you love?

_Gal_. Dear, Prince, how dear! I ne're cost you a Coach
yet, nor put you to the dear repentance of a Banquet;
here's no Scarlet Sir, to blush the sin out it was given
for: This wyer mine own hair covers: and this face has
been so far from being dear to any, that it ne're cost
penny painting: And for the rest of my poor Wardrobe,
such as you see, it leaves no hand behind it, to make
the jealous Mercers wife curse our good doings.

_Pha_. You mistake me Lady.

_Gal_. Lord, I do so; would you or I could help it.

_Pha_. Do Ladies of this Country use to give no more respect
to men of my full being?

_Gal_. Full being! I understand you not, unless your Grace
means growing to fatness; and then your only remedy
(upon my knowledge, Prince) is in a morning a Cup of
neat White-wine brew'd with _Carduus_, then fast till
supper, about eight
you may eat; use exercise, and keep a Sparrow-hawk, you
can shoot in a Tiller; but of all, your Grace must flie
_Phlebotomie_, fresh Pork, Conger, and clarified Whay;
They are all dullers of the vital spirits.

_Pha_. Lady, you talk of nothing all this while.

_Gal_. 'Tis very true Sir, I talk of you.

_Pha_. This is a crafty wench, I like her wit well, 'twill be
rare to stir up a leaden appetite, she's a _Danae_, and
must be courted in a showr of gold. Madam, look
here, all these and more, than--